


i feel like i could die beside you

by kokirane (lovelyspiral)



Category: Devilman (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Ryo reflecting on his relationship with Akira throughout the years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 15:06:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13484046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelyspiral/pseuds/kokirane
Summary: Akira’s love came bundled like this: extra snacks, fierce, sweaty hand-holding, and a brilliant, gap-toothed smile.





	i feel like i could die beside you

When Ryo was seven, he had dreams of flying. Akira had dreams of a man climbing through his window on and off for around two years; he cried and cried himself to sleep until one night, pocket knife in hand, Ryo slipped in next to him.  **  
**

“I’ll protect you,” Ryo said. He liked the sound of that. Protecting Akira – it felt like he had finally found something important. On the playground, Akira tried to protect him in his own way: if someone took Ryo’s shoes, he would go barefoot as well. If someone stole Ryo’s lunch, he’d split his in half. If someone teased Ryo, Akira let loose the tears that Ryo would never allow himself to shed.

Akira’s love came bundled like this: extra snacks, fierce, sweaty hand-holding, and a brilliant, gap-toothed smile. When sensei asked them what they wanted to be when they grew up, Akira said an Olympic runner, and Ryo said Akira’s protector.

 

When Ryo turned ten, Jenny took him to America, and Akira stayed behind.

Ryo remembers asking if Akira could come with them, but Jenny had shook her head and gripped his hand tighter, pulled him away a little harder.

“I’ll mail l-l-letters,” had been Akira’s hiccuping farewell. They kept in touch, and got older – that was it, really. He wouldn’t have said he  _missed_  Akira, but Ryo still devoured whatever scraps Akira threw him. He scrolled through Akira’s Facebook and Instagram photos before he slept, and they video-chatted at least once a week before it slowly became once a month, and then even less than that.

He had never been able to understand his childhood friend, and alone in America, Ryo felt that their connection would grow tenuous and strained. He was sure life would go on as it had, meaningless and trite and sometimes peppered with thoughts of Akira.

But Akira kept sending him silly texts and care packages brimming with food. Akira was the first that he told about becoming a professor. Akira talked about track meets and participation medals, still shining, still lonely, and Ryo wondered if he could protect someone oceans away.

 

Sixteen and together, Ryo saw that Akira still cried and cried and cried. He could have wiped Akira’s cheeks, let his fingers brush the dark markings around gold eyes, kissed wild and unruly black hair. He didn’t, because tears were just the way of Akira’s heart, and it was the way of his to hug Akira perfunctorily and slip cash into his hands.

What comfort could he give when Akira gave him everything? It felt a little like staring into the sun, defiant and small in its glare – all that only to be blinded? Akira always seemed content (Akira,  _Akira_ ) with little gestures; he spoiled Ryo. There was no need to worry.

Even so, he found himself restless when Akira didn’t return. It was only when Akira was in his arms again that it felt like a distant roaring had quieted – or rather, it had come closer, and found a home between their chests.

Akira was safe; Ryo had been able to protect him. That was enough.

 

Older than he can ever remember being, Ryo holds a body that steadily crumbles. Akira is fraying like a well-loved pair of running shoes, mouth parted and puckered, and Ryo thinks he should have kissed that mouth.

He still can, and so he does, carefully brushing his hair back. It still falls across Akira’s face, a stark golden glow against ashy skin. Akira is not revived like a princess of legend, and Ryo’s body shakes. Free of tear-tracks, Akira’s skin is  _dry:_  where is his baby?

Wetness stings his eyes as Ryo stubbornly holds Akira closer. “Akira? Talk to me.”

_Tell me about running. Tell me about about the places you want to travel. I’ll take you there. I’ll make a new world for just the two of us._

“Akira, I…”

Why can’t he say anything? Why does ‘Akira,’ adored and at home on Ryo’s tongue, encompass everything, while ‘love’ feels meaningless?

Akira is -- was -- more than that, Ryo supposes, and cries. 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm still broken up about devilman crybaby, and hope to write more soon! // cry with me @kokirane on tumblr!


End file.
